The Little Lady Affair
by Wickwire
Summary: Napoleon and Illya must get a stolen Thrush artifact off an island. The way they accomplish it may raise some eyebrows.


19

Act I Thou shalt not steal unless its from THRUSH

"Move it Illya! Move it! Move it!" Napoleon Solo shoved his partner unceremoniously on the back, causing the young Russian to stumble. But nimble as always, Illya Kuryakin recovered quickly and raced for the door at the end of the hallway. It was still ajar as they had left it on the way in. He barreled forward and shot out of the door, the package tucked under his arm like a bloated football.

Solo followed quickly, pausing only long enough to fire off a couple of shots behind him. There was not a chance of hitting anyone, of course, but just the sound should make their pursuers dodge, thus ceding distance to their quarry.

It was enough. Solo burst out of the door into the sudden sunlight and the steamy Caribbean air. Illya was racing down the grassy slope to the road that edged the jungle. Napoleon didn't waste any time in following him. They made it to the tree where they had left the vintage motorcycle. Solo smoothly caught the awkward package that Illya tossed to him, placing it in front of him as he hopped on the cycle behind his partner. He was excruciatingly aware that a good portion of his ass was hanging precariously off the back as the package took up room between them. He clasped his arms desperately around both the package and Illya, struggling to get a solid grip.

Illya paid little attention to his partner's difficulties and slammed his foot down on the kickstart, giving it gas. Immediately, the cycle lurched into action, Solo clinging on as best he could. As they sped away they could hear the gunshots over the groaning engine of their motorcycle.

Pursuit would be inevitable. They needed to get off the road as soon as possible. The motorcycle was World War II vintage and would not hold up to a long chase. Illya turned sharply into the shrubbery as soon as a path presented itself and tumbled the bike through the barely passable route, branches and vines whipping across their faces as they went.

After several minutes and dubious progress, Illya stopped the cycle in a small clearing and cut the sputtering engine. He twisted in the saddle and looked back at Napoleon. "They won't be fooled for long. Thrush will be calling out reinforcements. They'll find the path."

Solo backed off the seat, clutching the brown paper wrapped treasure to his chest. "Then we need to get out of here fast." He put the package on the ground and pulled out the pen-shaped communicator from his jacket pocket.

"Open channel D."

Illya frowned as he inspected the motorcycle's gas gauge. He tapped it repeatedly. "Napoleon, you know that won't work."

"Won't know till we try." But static only greeted his optimism. "THRUSH is still jamming our frequencies."

"Yes, the whole island has been isolated. Whatever they intended to do with this..thing, they didn't want it getting out before they were ready." Kuryakin looked around the clearing, calculating possibilities. "Portsmouth is about 5 miles from here." He pointed toward the setting sun. "I think we can make better time on foot. Besides, we're running on fumes."

Napoleon nodded doubtfully, staring morosely at the cycle. "Yeah, at least we can hear if anyone is pursuing us. But I'd still feel better on wheels."

Illya picked up the stolen package. "You'll survive the walk. Besides, we can steal something when we get closer to Portsmouth. We need to get to the safe house. Oscar can help us get off the island." Tucking the package under his arm, he pushed forward through the jungle, Solo following reluctantly.

xxxxx

"There's no way off the island." Oscar LeBlanc fiddled with the knobs of the short wave radio. "Nothing. We can't get a message out and the police have shut down all the ports and Melville Hall field. Whatever you guys stole, it's certainly caused a stir."

"They can't keep everything shutdown indefinitely," Illya objected. "There will be repercussions."

"I've been told its only until they can get security in place. They'll be searching every person, bag and crate leaving this island." Oscar glanced uncomfortably at the package on the table. "What the hell is that thing?"

Solo stepped forward and unwrapped the brown butcher paper that covered their prize and stepped back. Both Illya and Oscar moved closer to the table looking down at the strange object.

"I haven't a clue," Napoleon said quietly, staring at the unwrapped object. "Headquarters only said that it was vital to steal it and return to the mainland as soon as possible."

Pragmatic as ever, Illya shrugged. "We don't need to know what it is or even what it does. What we need is a way to get it past the authorities. That is going to be difficult."

The three men stared at the object. It was roughly a foot in diameter and looked like a basketball that had been sawed neatly in half. It was metallic, with its dome side bisected with metal strips holding the two sides closed. It sat on a smooth foundation, appearing as innocuous as a dome over a serving dish. There was a row of lights at the base which blinked ominously, but other than that there was no clue as to its function.

It was too big to carry on their persons. It was bound to be discovered in a suitcase and even hiding it in a cargo crate seemed difficult.

"Waverly said it was important," Solo repeated.

Illya stepped to the door of the cabin. "You're the strategist, Napoleon. I'll step out and get us some food and you can figure it out."

Solo glowered at him. "Your flippant attitude is not helping, Illya."

The Russian grinned impishly. "Perhaps not. But at least we won't be hungry." He checked the window quickly before dodging outside.

Oscar laughed. "He hasn't stopped eating since you two arrived on the island. For such a skinny little guy he has quite an appetite."

Napoleon gazed thoughtfully back at the other man. Illya would not have been happy at that description. In reality, Illya was only two or three inches shorter than either Oscar or himself. He just looked compact. He may have been small but he was a force to be reckoned with. "Hmm. I think I may have an idea." He looked down at the object on the table. "Oscar," he said decisively, grabbing a pen and a piece of paper, writing quickly. "Can you get me these items?"

Oscar picked up the paper and scanned the list. His brows rose in astonishment. "Uh, I'm sure I can but..."

"Scoot along, then. I've strategizing to do." His smile spread across his face in delight as Oscar frowned in puzzlement.

xxxxx

Illya returned later with a small bag of groceries, mostly fresh fruit and cheese plus several bottles of local beer. He'd managed to find a bakery and procured a loaf of bread. He dumped his bounty on the table next to the mysterious object. It still looked unfathomable to the Russian and that made him curious. He picked up the precious artifact and examined it more closely. It was completely unremarkable. Their assignment had been straightforward: fly to Dominica, connect with Oscar LeBlanc, a local UNCLE contact, and arrange to find and steal said object. All had gone surprisingly well. The THRUSH satrap had been well guarded in the middle of the island jungle but that had not presented a major setback. Several shots of tranquilizer darts and a merry chase later and they'd obtained their quest. Mr. Waverly would be pleased with the efficiency of the operation.

He frowned. Until now. How to get the damned thing off the island and back to New York was still up in the air. He'd been flippant to Napoleon but was under no illusion about how important the mission was.

The door to the back bedroom of the small cabin opened and Solo emerged. "Ah, lunch, I see."

Illya nodded toward the bags, still examining the enigmatic object. "I wonder what it does?"

"Well, it is a THRUSH invention, so obviously nothing good."

"Any thoughts on how to sneak it off the island?"

"Well, yes," Napoleon drawled, looking ever so nonchalantly over his shoulder.

"Uh oh," Illya said. "I've seen that look before. I've got the feeling I'm not going to like this."

Solo grinned. "I've got the feeling you're going to hate it."

Act II Cherchez Le Femme

"No! Absolutely not!"

Oscar snickered as Solo held up the garment and proffered it to Kuryakin. "Come on, it's perfect," Napoleon said. "We strap the gadget onto your stomach, put you in this little frock, and there is no way they'd frisk an expectant mother."

"You can't be serious!"

"Look, they are searching all planes and boats leaving the island. We need a way to get past the search. Oscar assures me they would never suspect a pregnant woman."

"Maybe so, but why not a real woman?" Illya beseeched Oscar.

LeBlanc shrugged uncomfortably. "I thought about that but there's no one down here I trust." He blanched at Illya's scowl. "Look, I've only been assigned here for a couple of weeks. It takes time to establish contacts."

Illya glared at Napoleon. "It never takes you that long to make contacts, especially with women."

Napoleon smiled placatingly. "I've been busy."

"Why me? Why don't you do the honors?"

Napoleon sighed. "Look, we need to pass ourselves off as man and wife. Like it or not, you are somewhat smaller than me and thus a little more believable size wise."

Illya's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I won't do it. It can't possibly work!"

Solo sorted through one of the suitcases on the bed. "Look, it's just until we get to New York. I've packed one suitcase with men's clothes, including yours, and the other is full of woman's clothes. When they search it they won't suspect a thing."

Napoleon held up something that looked suspiciously like a negligee. "Oscar did a great job of getting what we need. They'll assume we're taking a vacation." He grinned "Just a little getaway before our baby is born. We'll make an adorable couple."

"You do realize I'm armed" Illya warned.

Oscar coughed. "I think it will work. Even with all the security any pat down of an expectant mother would be cursory at best."

"No!"

xxxxx

Solo took another swig of beer and checked his watch again. He glanced at the bedroom door. What was taking them so long?

Suddenly the bedroom door opened and Oscar emerged, followed by a very angry Russian.

"Not bad, if I do say so myself," Oscar said, standing aside and presenting his creation, who stood in the doorway, seething dangerously.

Solo looked doubtful. "Well, I've seen worse," he said. "Although if you looked a little less like a Spartan warrior and a little more friendly, it would help."

Illya didn't exactly look feminine but he did look pregnant. He wore a long dark wig, a modest skirt and a full cut maternity top. A pair of dark tights covered the hair on his legs and the look was finished off with a pair of comfortable looking sandals. He wore makeup which covered his beard stubble, with mascara and lipstick which added a bit of femininity to the whole look.

Napoleon handed him a pair of cat-eyed sunglasses, straw hat and a scarf to cover his neck. He tried to look encouraging. "Here, try these on."

Illya grabbed the proffered items and put them on, grumbling under his breath in Russian.

"Now let's see you walk," suggested Napoleon.

Illya marched across the cabin to the window and back. Somehow he had lost his usual cat-like grace.

Solo shook his head. "Would you walk more like a pregnant woman?"

"How does a pregnant woman walk?" Came the responding growl.

"Well, not like that. You're walking too much like a man."

"I am a man!"

Solo grinned impishly. "No, you're not. You're the mother of my child."

"You," Illya snarled, "are living on borrowed time."

Napoleon held up his hands placatingly. "Come on, try walking again. We're looking for believability. And we're already starting from a disadvantage."

Sighing, Illya did so, walking back and forth in the small space.

"Is that the best you can do? Put some wiggle in it. Or at least some poise. Come on, Illya, if I'm going to be seen with you, you need to be sexy. After all, I have standards to live up to."

"I hate you."

"Is that anyway to talk to your beloved husband?"

"That's it, where's my gun!"

Solo just laughed. "Come on, sweetheart, we have a plane to catch."

Illya glared at him. "If you call me that again, I will gut you like a fish." He picked up the purse that had been lying on the table and headed for the door. He glanced over his shoulder with an evil grin. "Get the luggage, darling."

xxxxx

Oscar handed the airline tickets to Solo. "Flight 61. I was able to cobble a couple of passports but they won't withstand too much scrutiny. You have to be sure not to arouse suspicion." He glanced at Illya, who was standing with his arms crossed looking like a thundercloud. Oscar started to say something but thought better of it.

The three men were standing at the main counter at Melville Hall Airport. There was a short line ahead of them but it was proceeding slowly. Several official looking men were at the front of the ticket counter questioning each passenger and examining luggage.

"This is not going to work," Illya repeated for the hundredth time

"Sure it is. Just relax. If all else fails go into labor. That would scare off most men." Solo seemed cool as a cucumber.

Oscar cleared his throat. "This is where I leave you. But I'll be standing by if things go south."

"Don't go far. We don't have guns," Solo commented.

"Which is extremely lucky for you," Illya said through gritted teeth.

Solo ignored him. "Thanks, Oscar". They shook hands and LeBlannc strode off. Illya gazed after him. "Actually I do have a gun," he said softly.

Napoleon's eyebrows raised.

"When I strapped on baby Solo, I tucked my handgun behind it."

Before Napoleon could comment, they had reached the front of the line.

"Tickets please," the agent droned.

Solo handed him the required papers. "Here you go. Tickets and passports," he said jovially.

The agent examined the documents. "Mr. and Mrs. Harrison?"

"That's us," Napoleon said happily. "Soon to be three." He put his arm around Illya's shoulder and gently patted the rounded faux belly. He could feel Illya's shoulders tense.

One of the officials reached for the passports with a frown on his face.

"Americans?"

"Yes, indeed! Carlinville, Illinois. Wanted to get in our last vacation before the baby's born. All of our friends say it'll be a long time before we can afford another one." He smiled innocently.

The man, obviously THRUSH, now that Napoleon could see the bulge under his jacket, examined each passport and then each UNCLE agent. THRUSH obviously had their influence further into Dominica politics than they had originally thought. That explained access to both communications and travel on the island.

"Gary Harrison?" The man checked back and forth between the passport and Solo.

"That's me!" Solo hugged Illya closer. "And this is my little Phoebe." He grinned broadly, a man obviously in love and thrilled at the prospect of fatherhood.

The THRUSH agent glanced dubiously at Illya's protruding belly but didn't comment. After a moment he turned to his partner who was rifling through the two suitcases.

"Anything?"

The man searching the luggage snapped both pieces closed and shook his head.

The first man patted down Solo and looked through the purse that Illya handed over.

"They're clean." The second man waved them on.

"Come on, Sugarplum, we have a plane to catch," Napoleon said as the purse was handed back. Illya murmured something unintelligible to the officials but Napoleon heard it plainly. He bustled his ersatz bride away from the men hurriedly.

"Dearest, I think I'm going to need that appendage if we're going to have any more children."

"God, I hate you."

Act III What could possibly go wrong?

Miraculously they made it to the plane, a Dakota DC-3, without further incident. It held fifteen seats, two on one side of the aisle and one on the other. They settled themselves into the two seats together in the back row. The other passengers slowly took their own seats and settled in. The plane was full.

The stewardess, a lovely young woman with blond hair and a starched blue uniform, leaned in over Solo to address Illya. "Mrs. Harrison?" She smiled brightly. "Is this your first?"

Illya looked blank for a moment before nodding his head.

"How far along are you?" The stewardess asked sweetly.

Illya removed his sunglasses and returned her smile shyly. He pitched his voice just a tad higher but spoke softly. "Just another month. It seems like forever."

The stewardess chuckled and patted her passenger's hand. She faltered a moment as she looked down at Illya's clearly masculine hands, but her smile returned immediately. "I'm sure it'll be here before you know it. Can I get you anything?"

"A vodka?"

Napoleon interrupted smoothly. "Phoebe, you're such a kidder. She'll have some tea."

It took another fifteen minutes but eventually the two prop aircraft was ready for take off. Once in the air, Solo finally relaxed and loosened his tie.

"You're being awfully quiet, my sweet."

Illya sipped his tea. "Just contemplating all the ways to torture you that won't leave marks."

Solo looked at him with a witty reply that died on his lips as he caught the look in Illya's eye. The Russian really did know many ways to torture people. With a sigh, Napoleon settled back in his seat. It was going to be a long flight.

xxxxx

Napoleon woke with a start as he felt Illya's elbow in his ribs. He nearly snapped at his partner but caught the look on Illya's face. Something was definitely wrong.

Solo followed Illya's gaze to the front of the plane.

Two passengers were standing up near the cockpit. They were both of Hispanic descent, they were both young and they were both very, very nervous.

"I think they are trouble," Illya murmured.

Solo nodded, reaching into his jacket before belatedly realizing he didn't have his service revolver. "THRUSH?"

"I don't think so. They act too nervous. They seem very amateurish."

The two agents looked at each other knowingly. "Hijackers," they whispered together.

Solo relaxed a little. If these were hijackers, they weren't being targeted specifically. In fact, if everyone played it cool, they could be landing in New York soon after a brief detour to someplace like Havana. No gunplay, no violence, just two scared men. That didn't mean that there wasn't danger.

The stewardess strode down the aisle and approached the men. She looked serious and determined. Both UNCLE agents tensed as they watched.

"Will you gentlemen please take your seats?"

Solo admired her bravery. He could tell she knew the score. One of the hijackers started to return to his seat but the other drew a knife from his boot. How the hell had that gotten through the pat down? Solo thought darkly.

There were several screams as the knife wielder grabbed the stewardess and pulled her to him, placing the weapon at her throat.

Both agents were on their feet, prepared to spring into action if necessary. But the knife wielder shouted in rapid fire Spanish at his co-conspirator, his panic obvious. The other man reached his seat and under it for a camera case. He pulled out a handgun and waved it at the other passengers. There were more screams.

"This is a hijacking! We demand to be taken to Cuba!"

Illya sighed. "They could at least be a little more imaginative," he muttered.

In the abstract, Napoleon could agree but at the moment the stewardess needed to be freed of her immediate danger. Yet before he could act, the knife wielder pushed the young woman away and brandished the knife nervously.

"Stay back! We are armed!"

"So am I," whispered Illya.

Napoleon had almost forgotten about the gun hidden behind the baby bump. "Not yet. This could escalate out of control."

"It already has."

The gun the hijacker had was a small one probably hidden within the camera itself. It would explain how it passed the THRUSH scrutiny. Yet even an UNCLE rookie would have opened the camera.

"They were only looking for the device," Illya commented quietly as if reading Napoleon's mind. "We could have carried grenades aboard for all they cared." He looked down at his rounded belly. "What the hell is this thing?"

Napoleon frowned in agreement, his attention still on the front of the plane. The cockpit door was still closed but one of the hijackers was preparing to open it. Solo stood up.

"Gentlemen?" He raised his voice. All eyes suddenly turned toward him. He stepped out into the aisle and made his way slowly forward. He sidled around the stewardess who looked scared and worried. He smiled at her reassuringly. She wasn't reassured.

The man with the gun now aimed the barrel at Solo's chest. It was a small caliber weapon but at this range would have no trouble putting a hole straight through him. He raised his hands in surrender mode. "Gentlemen, is there anyway I can help you?"

The two men looked at each other in confusion.

"My name is Gary Harrison. I'm a lawyer from Illinois. It looks as if you need a negotiator."

Now the two hijackers looked openly suspicious. "We don't need you," the one with the gun said, brandishing his weapon. "We have this to do our talking!"

"Yes, but..." Napoleon was cut off as the young Hispanic cuffed him with the gun butt.

More screams accompanied Napoleon's fall to the aisle floor. Illya was on his feet and down the aisle in seconds, his heart in his throat. He kneeled down next to the groaning agent and placed his hand on Solo's shoulder. The other agent was already rising to his feet.

"Are you all right?"

Solo touched his head gingerly at the contact point and looked at his hand. "No blood."

"Sit down!" The gunman screeched at them. "Get away from us! Sit down!"

Solo staggered a little but Illya wrapped his arm around his waist and helped him back to his seat. The stewardess was right behind them.

"Oh, my God, are you all right, Mr Harrison?" She felt around the bump on his head. "Let me get you some ice." She darted to the back of the plane.

Illya glanced furtively around them and then reached under the maternity top. "I think the time has come to retrieve my gun. Keep a lookout."

Solo nodded, wincing as the motion caused his head to pound.

Illya hadn't really expected to have to use the gun he had hidden behind the THRUSH artifact and was surprised at how difficult it was to wedge his hand behind it. He could feel ithe gun, but couldn't quite grasp it.

"She's coming back," his partner hissed.

Just another fraction of an inch...

"Here's some ice, Mr. Harrison," the stewardess said as she handed him a soft towel wrapped around some ice cubes. She placed it in his hand, glanced at Illya and paused, looking worried. "Mrs. Harrison, are you okay?"

Illya hid the gun in his lap beneath the voluminous top. "Yes, fine," he gasped. "Just a little twinge,"

Solo looked at him and stared in shock. Illya was wincing in pain, a fine sheen of sweat had burst out on his forehead,

"Honey, that looks like more than a twinge," the stewardess said.

"No, no, I'm fine," Illya said through clenched teeth.

"Have you gone into labor?" The stewardess asked.

"Labor?" Napoleon repeated stupidly.

"No, no, it's nothing. I'm not-" He gasped and clutched his stomach.

"Oh, my God, Mrs. Harrison, you are most definitely in labor!"

The stewardess stood up and addressed the rest of the occupants on the plane. "Is there a doctor aboard?"

The hijackers looked at each other in bewilderment. There was a murmur that went through the plane but no one stepped forward as a doctor.

The stewardess patted Illya's hand. "Don't worry Mrs. Harrison. I'm a nurse. I'm sure I can help you." She tried to smile reassuringly.

Illya was in definite pain. His face had gone pale beneath the makeup and he was grimacing in intense pain. "I don't think you can help me," he said harshly. He was doubled over, clutching at his stomach in agony.

The stewardess was suddenly uneasy. She definitely looked worried. "Let me get my emergency kit." She hurried to the back of the plane.

Napoleon barely noticed. He was still staring at Illya with his mouth hanging open. "Illya, you're not...?" He let the sentence trail off in disbelief.

Kuryakin grabbed Solo's lapel roughly and yanked him close to his face. "Don't be insane! It's the object! There are needles or something. Stabbing me! It feels like a lot of them." He gasped unsteadily, breathing hoarsely. "When I grabbed the gun-must have turned it on-hit some button-accident-" With shaking hands, he reached under his top and retrieved the gun, pushing it at Napoleon. "Can't do anything-hurts too much-"

Solo took the gun and slipped it into his pocket. He was beginning to recover his composure and was now very worried about his partner. Illya still held him in a death grip and he carefully disentangled himself from the grasping fingers.

"Just what the hell is that thing?" He said with feeling.

The stewardess was back, carrying a small metal box, obviously a first aid kit. She set it down in the aisle and looked uncertainly at Illya. "Uh, maybe you should lie down?" She suggested.

The hijackers, forgotten until now, suddenly made themselves known again. They started banging on the cockpit door returning everyone's attention to them.

"Open up! Open up or we start killing passengers!"

The banging continued unabated.

The stewardess was torn between her obvious duty to deal with the hijackers and the cockpit door or help the poor woman who was in obvious active labor before her. Solo could practically follow her decision-making process on her face as she determined that Phoebe Harrison was on her own until the rest of the plane was safe. She squeezed his shoulder encouragingly.

"She'll be okay. Just stay with her."

Napoleon started to argue but quite suddenly Illya stood up, military straight. He no longer looked in pain, but he did look angry. He was staring coldly at the hijackers as they continued to pound on the door.

"What the hell is that infernal noise?" He stated flatly.

Act IV Oh, so that's what that thing is

Illya Kuryakin shook himself as if out of a trance and his face became cold and expressionless. Solo had seen that expression before and was rather alarmed. He had always referred to it as Illya's KGB killer mode; never to his face, of course. It happened when he knew he must kill someone-and had no problem with it.

"Illya?" Napoleon also stood up and grabbed his friend's arm. "Illya?"

The Russian, looking for all the world like a young pregnant woman, pushed Solo aside as easily as if he were a child. Napoleon was shocked at the power in the other man's arm. He tried to steady himself on the seat back and grabbed at Illya again.

This time, Illya merely glanced at him, gave him a shove which sent him forcefully back into the seat, and stepped calmly into the aisle.

By this time, the hijackers had managed to get the cockpit door open and were in the process of wrestling with one of the pilots.

Mrs. Phoebe Harrison marched down the aisle of the Dakota DC-3 and without pausing, grabbed the hijacker nearest her, yanked him off his feet and threw him against the wall. The man crumpled like paper and fell to an unmoving heap at her feet. With no hesitation, she karate chopped the other one. There was a loud snap and the second hijacker fell beside his companion. She turned around and expressionlessly gazed at the dumbfounded faces of her fellow passengers. "They were very noisy" was all she said. And with that, returned to her seat.

It was totally quiet on the plane, except for the drone of the propellers. Everyone was gaping in shock at the pregnant woman who had just saved their plane from being hijacked.

Napoleon was still staring at his partner, trying to make some sense of what had just happened. Kuryakin was indeed capable of taking down the men but there had been a force about it that seemed - extraordinary. He stood up slowly, swallowing convulsively. Tearing his eyes away from Illya he looked up into the shocked and incredulous faces of the other passengers.

Napoleon glanced at the stewardess standing next to him and shrugged his shoulders. "Uh, she used to do roller derby," he said lamely.

As if that ridiculous explanation said it all, the tableaux unfroze and everyone started talking again. Napoleon looked back down at Illya, who was sitting there calmly, hands crossed primly on his lap, looking at peace and definitely no longer in pain.

"Uh, I'll be right back," he assured his partner and went forward to inspect the debacle. The man who had received the karate chop was dead; broken neck. The other man was out cold. Napoleon removed his tie and bound the man's hands behind his back. He didn't think he'd regain consciousness soon but no sense in taking chances. He gathered the knife and gun and slipped them into his pocket.

The plane's copilot soon joined him. The man was shaken but managed to help Solo drag the dead body to the back of the plane. The other hijacker was propped back into his seat, the gun given to the stewardess to make sure he stayed there.

"Thank you so much for your help, Mr., uh...?" The copilot began.

"Harrison," Napoleon responded. He glanced back at Illya, sitting so serenely, looking out of the window. He thought about adding that it wasn't him, it had been his partner but shrugged it away. Who needed to get into that mess?

"Capt. Stevens just told me that we are out of range of whatever was jamming our communications."

Napoleon was relieved. He'd be able to contact HQ. But what the hell would he tell them? The truth obviously but that was hard to sort out. He took his seat beside Illya and took out his communicator. "Open Channel D."

Illya smiled complacently. "Oh, good. Communications are back."

Solo nodded as the pen crackled into life. "Channel D open. Are you two all right? We've been very worried about you here." It was the voice of Lisa Rogers, Waverly's aide.

"Uh, yes and no," Napoleon responded. "The plane we're on was almost hijacked but they've been...neutralized. We have the object. We need someone to meet us at the airport. And alert medical."

"Who's injured?" The alarm in Lisa's voice made it rise sharply.

"Well, I think it's Illya."

"You think? That doesn't make any sense."

"Oh, you are so right about that." He knew he couldn't even begin to explain. "I'll fill you in when we get there. Solo out." He put the pen shaped communicator back in this pocket.

"It'll be good to get back to headquarters," Illya stated calmly. "I'm very hungry"

xxxxx

The trip back to headquarters was a nightmare. Evidently the pilots had radioed everything to New York before they got there and the plane was met with an ambulance, several police cars, an army of news media, and a pair of agents from UNCLE. The story of Illya's derring-do had also beat the plane and they had to wade through shouted questions and a lightning storm of flashbulbs. They had been questioned by the police and airport security before the UNCLE agents managed to get them free. The other passengers had surrounded them with gratitude.

Remarkably, through it all, Illya remained in character. As far as the world knew, Phoebe Harrison was a hero. He smiled shyly at the cameras and merely ducked his head at the questions being fired at him from all directions. Also remarkably, their identities had held up until the two UNCLE agents rescued them from the authorities.

That had been an awkward moment, when agents Williams and Murphy had entered the interrogation room and instead of finding Kuryakin and Solo, they found a demure and passive woman with Solo. That had indeed been awkward, but they rolled with it and the extrication had happened with relative ease.

Once at headquarters, Illya accepted his badge, despite the receptionist's shocked expression at his appearance. Yet the Russian seemed unfazed and marched through the corridors in drag, blithely unaware of the other agents stopping and gaping at him as he walked by. When they reached Waverly's office, Lisa Rogers merely blinked at Illya's appearance and waved them through to the inner office.

Mr. Waverly was sitting behind the circular table, reading some documents. He barely glanced up when the two entered. "Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin. I'm glad you made it back. You were successful, I presume?" He looked up and looked intentionally at Illya's maternity top.

"Not a good look for you, Mr. Kuryakin."

Solo tensed for his partner's reaction, but Illya just nodded. "I have the artifact, sir." He scrunched the maternity top up to reveal the cursed object attached to his stomach.

"It was the only way to get it off the island," he explained. "THRUSH had all communications jammed and were examining everyone as they left, looking specifically for the object, Napoleon figured that they wouldn't look too closely at a pregnant woman."

Mr. Waverly pursed his lips. "Very creative. Well, done. Both of you."

"There is a catch, sir. The thing has attached itself to Illya with needles." Napoleon stepped forward. "Mr. Waverly, can I ask you? What exactly is that thing?"

Waverly looked mildly surprised. "I thought you would have figured it out by now. It is a super soldier machine. Although it is designed to be worn as a back pack. The needles that pierced Mr. Kuryakin's stomach are actually designed to attach themselves to the spinal cord and pump strength enhancing drugs into the wearer. It supposedly increases strength, agility, the senses, and judgement."

Well, that explained a lot.

Waverly reached for his pipe and began to fill the bowl with tobacco. "Mr. Kuryakin, you need to go down to medical where they will remove the artifact and-"

"No." Illya said calmly.

Waverly looked up sharply and Napoleon practically sprained his neck turning to stare at his partner,

"I beg your pardon, Mr, Kuryakin?"

"I'm not taking it off." The answer was calm and deadly quiet.

"Illya, you can't be serious. You can't keep up that disguise."

Kuryakin just smiled placidly. "I won't wear it as is. I'll transfer it to my back as intended. But I am not surrendering it."

"You are insubordinate, Mr. Kuryakin!" Waverly barked. "You will remove it."

"All due respect, sir. No."

Illya turned to leave,

Waverly stood up abruptly. Solo didn't think he'd ever seen him so angry. "Mr Solo, stop him!"

Napoleon acted reflexively, reaching out to grab Illya's arm.

Illya avoided the grasp neatly and in turn reached out and grabbed Solo's hand. With one squeeze, Solo felt a bone in his hand crack and he fell to his knees in extreme pain. As his knees hit the floor, he heard the alarm claxons sounding.

Within moments the sound of feet thundering down the hallway could be heard. Five agents charged into the room, guns drawn, ready for anything. Except perhaps what they encountered. Waverly pointed to what appeared to be a pregnant woman.

"Stop him!"

From his position on the floor, Napoleon watched his partner take down all five men as if they were children. Super soldier my ass! He was a monster. He quickly reached for his gun with one hand and a dart from his pocket with the other. In spite of the incredible pain from his broken hand it took just moments to load, but Illya was already strutting down the hallway, having shoved Lisa Rogers ruthlessly against the wall. Taking careful aim, he shot the dart directly into the the Russian's neck.

Illya spun, ignoring the dart and glared at Napoleon angrily. "That was unnecessary." He stopped and retrieved Lisa's weapon from her prone body and walked back into the office, pointing the weapon straight at Solo. That was no dart in that gun.

"Illya, don't!"

"Kuryakin!"

As if in slow motion, Solo watched his partner aim the pistol straight at his head. He could see the finger begin to squeeze on the trigger. He wanted to shut his eyes but couldn't. He could only stare in horror as he prepared to meet his death by the hands of his best friend.

Suddenly, the cold look in Illya's eyes seemed to cloud over. He paused mid stride and his gun hand wavered ever so slightly. Then as the tranquilizer dart took effect, the Russian pitched forward and Napoleon reached out to catch him, jamming his injured hand in the process, screaming like a girl, an irony that didn't escape him as he cradled the wigged head of Phoebe Harrison in his arms.

xxxxx

Illya Kuryakin was greeted by Napoleon Solo as he left medical after several days of observation. The object had been removed immediately but the super soldier juice, as Napoleon called it, took time to clear his system. As per usual medical had advised that Illya take a few more days off, which he promptly ignored. All he needed was to go home, get a nice shower and burrow into bed. He would most assuredly be back to work tomorrow morning. Napoleon had brought him a suit, which was a good thing since the clothes he came in wearing were entirely inappropriate.

The Little Lady Affair, which records had dubbed it, much to the Russian's chagrin, was considered both a success and a failure. The super soldier invention did not live up to its hype. It definitely made the wearer stronger, but its affect on the brain was highly suspect, given Illya's irrationality while wearing it. As Mr. Waverly put it, "What good is an army of super soldiers you can't control?"

The success part of the mission was that it turned out that this was the only prototype. And hidden within the object itself were the plans for it. Word sifted through the grapevine that the inventor had been mistreated enough by THRUSH that he hid the plans and refused to divulge their secrets. It was also rumored that he had been killed. No wonder THRUSH went through so much to keep the UNCLE agents from taking it off the island.

On a side note, Phoebe Harrison had turned into somewhat of a folk hero. Combine that with the fact that she and her husband had disappeared made the news media go crazy. So if Illya had ever wanted to just bury this whole affair and try to forget it, front page headlines with fuzzy pictures of Phoebe would make it impossible.

He knew he was going to have to live through a lot of ribbing from his fellow agents. He could live through that. The jokes and teasing had already started before he even left medical. The best involved Napoleon and his taste in women.

Napoleon grinned as Illya walked up to the nurses station. "You don't look worse for the wear." He commented. "In fact your wardrobe has improved considerably."

Illya busily signed himself out of medical. "And who was responsible for that wardrobe?"

"Don't be testy."

Once all the forms were signed, the two men headed for the exit. Illya noticed that Solo's hand was still in a cast. "I'm sorry about that," he indicated the hand.

"That's all right. It doesn't hurt anymore. It's at the itching stage. On second thought maybe you do need to apologize."

"After what you forced me to endure, I think we're more than even."

"You may have a point." Solo responded. "I'll give you a lift home. What do you say about picking up Chinese and watching a football game tonight?"

Illya considered. He disliked American football intensely. And yet. "Lot's of testosterone, right? I'm in."

Napoleon laughed as the two men left headquarters.


End file.
